


Awake My Soul

by Jinmukang



Series: Batfam Week 2020 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Batfam Week 2020, Batfamily (DCU), Child Abuse, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Meta-human AU, Past Abuse, Violence, lots of character study >.<
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinmukang/pseuds/Jinmukang
Summary: The Batfamily all have powers. Some good, some bad, just like the changes they bring to each of their lives.-o-o-o-o-Written for Tumblr's Batfam Week 2020(Title stinks, I know. I'm having trouble coming up with a clever one. I'll change it when I do.)
Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Duke Thomas & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Series: Batfam Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658566
Comments: 22
Kudos: 161
Collections: Tales from the Cave





	Awake My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't supposed to be so long. Oops.
> 
> Note: with the meta-abilities, I took advantage of the timeline, so it doesn't really follow a specific comics run. If anything is confusing, please ask me in the comments :)
> 
> This will be updated monthly.
> 
> Description of "current" knowledge of each meta-ability is in the end notes.
> 
> Enjoy!

Nobody but four people in the entire world knew that Bruce was special. And not the kind of special loving parents call their children to let them know they're loved and irreplaceable. This kind of special was quite literally _special_.

Unfortunately, when Bruce was seven years old, sitting in his father's study and waiting for the arguing on the other side of the door to stop so his dad can come in and scold him for hitting that kid during recess, there wasn't much anyone could do about “special”. This kind of special wasn't known yet. Not even Bruce himself knew.

Bruce was close to having a panic attack. He knew that what he did was wrong, he'd already gotten a verbal lashing from his teacher and Alfred gave him the silent treatment the entire way back to the manor, sending him to his father's study saying that his parents are on their way home as they speak. But Bruce knew it will be so much worse than a verbal lashing. He just knew it. He hit a kid, and the kid had to go to the nurse, and Bruce's dad is a _doctor_ and he'll be so disappointed-

He didn't know the lights were flickering and the shadows gathering until the door burst open, cutting off his hyperventilating.

His father yelled, but not at Bruce. He yelled _for_ Bruce. But poor young Bruce didn't know that. He cried harder and the lights above him shattered in pieces all over the mahogany desk, blanketing the room in darkness.

He came out of it what he's told was just a few minutes later. It felt like hours to him; in those shadows.

They find out that day that Bruce can control darkness; a horrible power for a seven year old to have. His parents do a lot of research after that, furiously trying to figure out what is wrong with their son, but they mostly come up empty handed. The word Meta Human doesn't come around for another couple decades when The Flash makes his debut and Central City becomes a _central station_ for Meta's.

It doesn't matter to Bruce by the time Meta's are finally known. He's long learned how to control his powers, after hours and hours of practicing in those caves under the manor that he discovered by falling into all those years ago.

He uses them to his advantage. A scare tactic. It makes Gotham wonder if Batman is even human, it makes Gotham's criminals swear he's a demon.

Yet he uses it subtly. No one notices that it's him who makes the lights flicker and dim when he enters a room, they just think it's Gotham's horrid power supply failing at the most inconvenient time. No one notices that he uses that shadows to fade into corners and crevasses, to appear on the other side of the room. They just think he's sneaky and quick.

When he was a child, four people in the entire world knew he was Meta. After his parents died, the number went down to two.

Alfred and himself.

And it's been that way for a very long time.

-o-o-o-o-

Dick Grayson has always loved to touch. And that's probably why he loves the circus so much.

_Everyone_ loves to touch.

Whether it's a hair ruffle or a friendly punch to the arm of hands grasped tight around each other as two bodies fly through the air, everyone is touching. Hugs are warm. Kisses at the top of his head are soft. Hands on his cheeks, wiping away tears after his first fall. Hands on his legs, helping him balance on his first handstand. A shoulder touching his gently as the person sitting next to him gives him silent encouragement before his first show.

Dick loves to touch.

It's the first thing people say when they talk about him.

It's not that shocking to say that if he ever had superpowers, it would be related to touch.

What was shocking was how bad it could be.

For him to touch.

His parents die. They're _murdered_. He watches them fall to their deaths and he's taken by the police into juvie and something angry begins to itch on his skin. He should have noticed it when the lunch lady handed him his tray of food and his fingers brushed the skin of her arms, just above where her latex gloves ended. She yelped and jumped back, grabbing her arm like she's been electrocuted. Dick was accused of pranking her, that he had somehow rubbed his hair on a balloon or his socks on the carpet and contained that static energy just long enough to shock that particular lunch lady.

Which was impossible considering it was juvie. There were no balloons, and his socks were so bad that he wouldn't be able to make any static energy even if there _was_ carpet in this tiled and cemented hellhole.

He was sent to his "room" which was really a glorified cell. He got yelled at by the warden and was practically "sentenced" to a month of janitor duty. Like it was top offence to accidentally shock someone.

His skin felt itchier and itchier and angrier and angrier until something finally happened.

Bruce Wayne took him in.

_Batman_ took him in.

And his skin didn't feel like it wasn't his anymore. Bruce wasn't one to touch, but he never pushed Dick away when Dick needed a hug after a nightmare. Alfred didn't initiate touch either, but he never seemed to mind when Dick practically hung from his elbows, wanting to know anything and everything about the soldier who became a butler for _Batman_.

Dick went out as Robin, and he couldn't feel more alive or more comfortable in his own skin.

Whatever happened in the juvenile detention center was a bad memory, something of the past.

Until it wasn't.

Tony Zucco killed his parents, and Dick had him cornered.

And Dick was so- so _angry_. Zucco was a pathetic man, after Robin took down his goons the man practically threw the gun on the ground to lift his hands in terrified surrender. Dick wasn't imagining this. He was imagining a man of great terror. A mob boss. The worst evil he could ever face. Like the Joker or Two-Face or the Riddler.

Not this coward.

It made him angry.

It made his _skin_ angry. And he wanted- he wanted to take his gloves off and- and… touch.

And he took off his gloves. He didn't understand what his body wanted but it _hurt_. He needed to get that hurt out of his heart and off his skin and he needed to _touch_.

It was a spur of the moment thing. He didn't think about it. He just ripped off his gloves and tacked the bastard, his hands landing on the man's chest where his damn suit was buttoned too low and it showed the perfect amount of skin for his eight year old hands to splay on top of.

Zucco screamed and jolted like he was having a seizure, and Dick held strong because it felt _good_. The anger was escaping and his skin didn't itch as much and Zucco was _screaming_ and writhing and-

And something grabbed his arm and he was yanked back, kicking and screaming. He wasn't done yet! He had to make Zucco pay, the bastard killed his mom and dad and he didn't have the balls to fight their eight year old child and… and he blinked, his flailing limbs stilling in Batman's restraining grasp, and he sees Zucco curled up on the ground sobbing, snot running down his face and tears making him look like a toddler. Two small hand prints were on his chest, red and festering and _bleeding_.

Dick did that. He doesn't know how, he doesn't know why, but he did that just by _touching_.

And he realized Bruce was touching him, and he began to struggle for a whole new reason.

He struggled and struggled because he didn't want Bruce to touch him. He didn't want Bruce to get hurt, but Bruce held firm, mouth near his ear whispering _it's okay_ and _we'll figure it out_ and _it looks like it's just skin on skin contact, you don't have to be afraid to touch me._

The police took Zucco away after Bruce calmed Dick down enough to stuff him in the Batmobile, half conscious and tantrumed out. Dick doesn't know what Bruce told the police about Zucco's hand shaped wounds, only that Bruce made his gloves a little harder to take off while out on the field and his mask became a cowl like his, because they weren't sure if it was just his hands or all of his skin.

They practiced in the cave to control his powers, but it seemed to be purely emotion based, and while he found that he can turn it on and off by will when calm, there's nothing to do when he's angry besides try and control his anger. Dick finds that he's a very angry person sometimes, so even when the years pass and he gets a better hold on it, he still wears a full body suit and something to cover his face.

He touches people less, but he's proud to say that Zucco is the only person he's ever truly hurt. He's gotten good at hiding away when he's angry, and no one but Bruce knows. Even after Jason and the others all show up one by one.

He has the power to make pain when he touches living things. He tries his best to not touch his brothers.

Even if it kills him inside.

-o-o-o-o-

Jason Todd has always been told he had a bleeding heart. His mom told him that sometimes when she wasn't high off her ass. His father told him that when he was finished beating him for the thousandth time and Jason says he forgives him when he says he's sorry. Batman said that even after Jason hit him with a tire iron and called him a big boob, he said so in the batmobile on the way to the cave after Jason apologized for trying to jack his car. Alfred said so when Jason asked if there's anything he can help with. Dick said so when Jason sat with him on a rare patrol together and Jason asked if he was okay after some sort of panic attack the older hero had when he lost a glove while fighting. His teachers said so when he tried his best to be kind to people.

Yet, no matter how many people told Jason he had a bleeding heart, his personally thought he had a rotten one. He lost control a lot. Got mad a lot. Because no matter how nice he tries to be, people still use him. Abuse him. He found early on in his life that some people don't deserve to live. Well... Not live.

No.

They don't deserve to heal.

Jason will admit now that his father was one of the first people he should have realized was just using him. He will not admit that the second was his mom.

His father would come back sometimes after "work", beaten and bloodied and bruised. "Get the fuck over here, boy," he'd say and Jason would come running because he wants to help the man who's supposed to be his dad (but he's also terrified because he's never really gotten over how his father snapped the neck of a small songbird that ran into their window right after Jason helped it) and he wants his dad to be proud of him.

It never takes anything out of Jason to help hurt things. It doesn't make him tired. It doesn't use some sort of internal energy storage, he can keep going and going and going and never feel faint or used up. As long as something is still breathing too, he can fix it.

Bodies are complicated, and wounds make them even more complicated. But bodies are also smart, and they know how to heal _everything_ , just sometimes… they need Jason's help.

The only downside to this is that when he gets hurt… he cannot heal himself.

He helps his father's bruises fade, he nudges the body to no longer have bags under the eyes, he commands the cuts to heal scarless, every cell working together to do an important job.

But then his father comes home drunk or pissed or a little of both and he kicks Jason until Jason is seeing stars, and Jason has to stay inside for the next week or else someone will see and assume Willis Todd abuses his son. His bruises stay. His broken ribs from a punch too hard to his chest stay. The scars on his wrist from when his dad threw a glass cup at the wall and the shards flew too fast for Jason to do little more than cover his face _stay_.

That's the downside of his ability. People can use him all they want but he can do shit for himself.

And his mom… his mom knew about his abilities too, because after his father killed that songbird he ran to her on one of her sober moments and sobbed about how he can't fix it again, he did it before just fine, why is it not working now?

His mom knew, and Jason healed her more often than his father, because deep down decades from then Jason might admit to himself that she knew exactly how to use him for her own pleasure. But to him then, he was just helping mommy no longer be in pain.

Drugs, she said, took away the pain, but she can't take away all the pain or else she might go too far. "But you can help me, my little sunshine," she said.

And he helped her. He brought her down before she went too high. Over and over he helped her get higher than what is healthy, and then he was the parachute. He couldn't cure an addiction, an addiction isn't a wound. It's a mentality. So it's the least he could do.

She overdosed when he wasn't there. He thinks that maybe… she got too high and forgot he wasn't home.

He'll never know.

But that's why, when Batman practically kidnapped him and called him a bleeding heart, he kept it to himself. He never told anyone about his healing abilities, even after someone got hurt on patrol or they came across someone wounded.

It wasn't worth it. People can heal just like he can heal.

He supposes that's how he became the violent and mad-all-the-time Robin.

He sorta just… stopped caring.

And he didn't start caring for a really long time, even after Bruce found him out.

And then, he thinks he lost the ability to care after his biological mom found out, used him, and then ratted him out to the Joker. After he died painfully. After he woke up with a livid green always at the edges of his sight.

It's been years since he's tried to heal anything. He doesn't even know if he can anymore.

After all, what's the point in trying?

There's not a whole lot of points. He didn't even bother to try after he beat the shit out of the replacement, well, beat the shit out of him more so than he planned. He didn't care to after Dick came stumbling out of Blüdhaven when Chemo blew the place sky high. He certainly didn't even think about it after he made sure to make rapists and murderers and dealers who sold to kids regret being born before he ends their miserable existence.

Jason Todd has a bleeding heart, but it's bleeding black, and powers that heal others won't fix that.

After all, he can't heal himself.

-o-o-o-o-

Tim has trouble sleeping. He always has trouble sleeping. He has trouble sleeping because he'll close his eyes and the memories have nothing to stop them from popping up in perfect clarity and detail behind his eyelids.

He was a toddler when the Flying Graysons died in front of him, but he can remember exactly how it happened. He knows the left rope of John's trapeze snapped first. He knows that Mary screamed for him before the right one of her's snapped as well. He remembers young Richard Grayson standing horrified at the top of his launch pad, eyes wide and already beginning to tear up. He remembers the feeling of his dad grabbing his shoulders and burying his face into his suit so Tim doesn't see what happens next.

He hears it though.

And this is why he can't sleep well anymore. He has photographic memory... _abnormally_ photographic. So abnormal, that his camera around his neck as he goes into the streets of Gotham to follow Batman is more like a prop than anything else. Well… it's more for showing cold evidence to Batman that he knows Batman is Bruce Wayne ‘cause a photograph is a lot more believable than a tween who says "I remember really good, Mr Batman!"

Yeah no, not if he wanted to end up being the youngest inmate of Arkham.

Or wherever they're sending crazy kids with weird photographic memories.

He takes pictures anyway, and eventually he manages to corner Batman—or maybe it's the other way around—inside an abandoned warehouse where he makes his claim and lays out the evidence, trying not to wince as some of the photos just don't do the events they capture justice.

And Batman is all about justice.

Batman studies the pictures, his mouth set in a straight, grim line, and Tim wishes for the ability to reach out and show him what's in Tim's mind because his memories are a lot clearer and filled with better lighting and audio and texture and angles, but Batman eventually sighs and takes off his cowl.

Tim will always remember that.

Well.

He will always remember everything, but this memory is like a favorite book. Another one to add to the overflowing bookshelf, but it's added lovingly to the very top shelf.

"What are you trying to say, Tim?" Bruce asks, and Tim knows he never gave his name. Bruce perhaps knew the entire time that Tim knew. Tim would be disappointed if he didn't.

"Take Richard to be your Robin again," Tim says, "please."

A sad look flashes across Bruce's eyes and he shakes his head. "I can't."

Tim doesn't know what caused Dick Grayson to leave Batman's side a few years ago, but whatever it was, it must have been bad. Every time Tim had been lucky enough to see them within the same vicinity of each other it was always tense and formal.

Nothing like how he remembers.

"But you _need_ Robin," he argues back and that sad look in Bruce's eyes becomes deeper, if not sadder. "Ever since… ever since you been alone you've been struggling and-"

Tim feels horrible bringing up Jason's death, even in the slightest most discreet of ways, but Bruce has to see that he isn't healthy. Working alone isn't _working_ at all. Gotham is a sick goddess that one person alone cannot fight. Batman needs Robin, just as much as a doctor needs a nurse.

"-and getting hurt more often. If you keep going like this, you're going to get yourself killed."

He takes a breath, realizing that Bruce is staring at him like how a parent would look at a frantic child who was only frantic because of something small. Tim's parents look at him like that all the time, even for the big stuff, and he can't help but feel with that look alone he has lost.

"Destroy those photos, Tim," Bruce says, standing up and confirming Tim's fears, "go home and don't come out to Gotham at night. It's dangerous."

After that dismissal, Tim snuck to Blüdhaven to talk to Dick. It wasn't hard to do, most drivers and busses could give two shits about some random kid wanting to travel between the sister cities. As long as they're paid, they don't care.

Though, talking with Dick didn't get him that much further than when he had confronted Batman.

But it did get him further.

Dick answered his door like he was expecting a pizza man or something. His hair was a mess, bags were under his eyes, and his _gloveless_ hands were already fumbling with a small crumpled up handful of cash. Dick always wears gloves. Tim doesn't know why, he thinks it might be some sort of germaphobe thing, but that wouldn't explain why he's not wearing them now.

Dick looks up from his wad of cash, completely missing Tim by looking over him, saying "how much do I owe ya?" Then he pauses, eyes widening for a moment, before he lowers his gaze and meets Tim's eyes with a small "Oh."

His hands are immediately shoved into his pockets with the money, and they don't come back out.

"Can I help you, little guy?"

"Can… can I come in? I don’t know who could be listening.."

Dick's eyes widened even more and Tim realizes his nervous tone is taken for something different as Dick leans out his doorway a little bit, checking left and right for probably some sort of criminal. Before Tim can even try to work up the courage to correct the older man, Dick's stepping back and telling Tim to come in. He shuts the door right when Tim gets in and locks it. Tim would be worried if he didn't know who Dick was.

"Are you alright," Dick asks, hurriedly grabbing a pair of gloves sitting on his coffee table and rushing to put them on his fingers. Tim shakes his head, opening his mouth to explain himself, but Dick's already pulling out his phone. "You're safe here, just tell me who-"

"No one's following me," Tim blurts and Dick stops, eyebrow drawing together in confusion.

"Then… why…?"

"You need to go back to Batman," Tim says and Dick looks like he's been punched in the gut.

"What…?"

Tim doesn't have time for this. Gotham doesn't have time for this. "Batman is Bruce Wayne. You're Nightwing. Batman needs Robin and you're the only one who can do it."

Dick's mouth opens and closes, clearly floundering for words.

And when he does find words, it's real not what Tim was hoping for. Dick can't go back to Gotham, Nightwing is solo and Blüdhaven needs him more than Gotham. Tim tries to argue that Bruce is going to get himself killed, but that piteous look finds Tim's face again and Tim soon finds himself storming out of Dick's apartment despite Dick's desperate attempts to offer him a ride home.

If Dick can't be Robin, then Tim will find someone else to be Robin, and until then it looks like things will have to be done himself.

A few days later, Tim's dressed up in his best remake of Robin's suit and Batman is standing in front of him, frowning.

"I'm going to be Robin until you find another, you can't stop me."

Batman very well could stop him, but instead something softens his frown into something more friendly. "Not like this you won't. Meet me at the manor tomorrow. 8pm. Sharp."

Tim didn't need to be told twice. He never has to be.

-o-o-o-o-

Damian doesn't startle easily. He has grown up in the heart of the most feared assassin organization in the history of mankind. He's been trained to always watch his back and his side and his front and his below and his above. He's been trained to keep a straight face and a quiet heart and a clear mind even if he's one man against an entire army.

Yet right now, as he sits alone in his chambers for the first time in what feels like forever, he couldn't be more startled.

He doesn't know how it happened. Only that it did.

Damian loves animals. He loves fish. He loves bugs. He loves crawlers and prowlers and swimmers and flyers because they're all so simple in nature and intention. You don't have to wonder what a tiger is thinking about, you can see it in their eyes. You can see it in the way their muscles bunch and ripple benefit their beautiful pelts. You can always tell when a tiger wants to play, ignore, or fight.

A human; you can never truly tell what a human is thinking about. His own mother is an enigma to him. Shrouded in mystery. He doesn't know how to act around her, so he just.. doesn't. He remains stony face and quiet and obedient and that never seems to annoy her one bit, so he continues to do so.

Flies though, they're attention never changes. They want to nothing but bug you. Pun… not intended.

And bugged: Damian is. Here he was, tired and sore from training and wanting to do nothing other than relax and read his book but that damn fly keeps trying to get in his way. Landing on his pages, on his toes, on his nose. He sets his book down and tries to shoo the fly out his window, but it stubbornly lands on the ceiling. Too high for him to reach. Curse his small stature.

He looks around his room and he finds one of his swords leaning against the wall and he reaches for it; lifts it above his head. He doesn't want to hurt the fly, just get it out of his room, and he hopes no one enters his chambers to find him trying to coax a fly out of it with a weapon meant for slicing necks. He can still feel the bruises on his back from when he tried to smuggle a small scorpion out of the training room and got caught by his grandfather.

Sympathy will get him nowhere. He pounded that lesson in his head as he forced Damian to put the creature down and smash it with his bare foot. He didn't cry, but he very much wanted to.

So he has to do this quickly. Get this damn fly out of his chambers before anyone walks in so it can go off and live it's next three or four weeks of life eating shit and bugging someone else to its fullest content.

But it's being very _very_ stubborn.

"Damn fly," Damian curses, placing his sword down and dropping his tired arm to his side. The fly buzzes helpfully and he scoffs, deciding if it wants to hang out in the corner of his ceiling then he won't stop it. As long as it doesn't fly on his toes or book again.

He lays back down on his bed, and it lands on his toes and book again.

Frustrated, he slams his book closed and waves it at the fly, trying to swat it away, but it keeps coming back and it keeps bothering him and now he's getting rather annoyed.

"Bug off."

It doesn't bug off.

And he growls because it lands on his hand, the very one he's trying to shoo it away with.

He glares at it. "MOVE!"

And moves it does. Just… not in the way he was expecting.

One second, he's looking at a fly rub its face with its forearms and the next there's a mess of green bug guts and stray legs and wings on his finger following a small noise that sounds almost like a tiny _pip_. It looks like someone squashed a blueberry on his hand, and he goes stock still and tries to make sense of what has just happened.

But he doesn't get much time to ponder what had happened, because he can hear footsteps outside his door and he recognizes them as his grandfather's. The man walks silently almost one hundred percent of the time. He only lets his footsteps make sound when he wants Damian to know he's coming. He quickly grabs at a dirty garment in his room and rubs the guts off on the cloth before fixing his hair and making himself presentable before his door opens without a knock.

As the months flow, he curiously tries… whatever he had done again, but this time on a spider that has made it's poisonous home under his dresser. He'll have the head of whoever cleans his chambers, if Damian weren't so competent to check every nook and cranny every time he enters this room, he could be bitten and dead by the time the sun rises again.

But, he must admit, this gives him the perfect opportunity to test out his questions on something he won't feel too terrible about accidentally… blowing up.

He focuses on the spider. It's about as big as his palm and colored dangerously. He can see it's red fangs clear as day, and it's legs move with too much fluidness as it hangs from a thread that looks too thin to hold anything.

He focuses his expression into a glare. He wants the spider to move. He wants it to move. He wants it to move.

It's legs twitch suddenly and then it's crawling backwards, and Damian's sure if it could make noise it would be hissing. Something is going on.

He wants it to move.

Move. Move. Move. Move.

" _Move_ ," he hisses, and the spider twitches violently and one of its legs bends in an impossible direction.

If it were a mammal or a human, he's sure that would have broken a bone.

Fascinated and terrified out of his mind, he focuses harder, curling his fingers under his chin. He wants it to move. He wants it to move. He wants it to-

_Pop_.

He blinks.

Spider guts are truly a vile sight to see.

He looks up and he finds himself cursing as he sees a large white pouch in the corner of the underside of his dresser. Naturally, he knows how to safely move a spider's egg sack without breaking it, but it will be a difficult job to do since it looks about ready to burst. Damian truly doesn't want to kill a bunch of baby spiders, but he also doesn't want his room to have an infestation.

He's pondering his options over in his head when all of a sudden, the door to his room swings open and he finds himself being stood over by his mother.

"There's a smashed spider under my dresser, mother," he says, standing up and brushing off his pants, lying easily. "And it's egg sack. It's a poisonous breed. I demand whoever made an inept attempt to clean my chambers be punished."

His mother expression didn't change besides a small smirk. "Of course, my pride."

**Author's Note:**

> Bruce:  
> -control shadows  
> -morph with shadows  
> -emotion based  
> -easy for him to control
> 
> Dick:  
> -cause pain with touch  
> -minor with dull pain to major with physical wounds  
> -emotion based  
> -can control slightly when calm 
> 
> Jason:  
> -power to heal  
> -as long as person is breathing, he can heal them  
> -no internal/external cost to heal  
> -not emotion based  
> -can use it whenever he wants to and can not use it whenever he wants to
> 
> Tim:  
> -perfect memory  
> -???  
> -to be discovered  
> -don't worry there's more to Tim's abilities than this chapter leads on :)
> 
> Damian:  
> -can make bugs explode???  
> -???  
> -to be discovered >:D
> 
> Cass:  
> -???  
> -to be discovered
> 
> Duke:  
> -ability to slightly sense/control light  
> -same as comics  
> -can sense where light has been and where it's going
> 
> Please leave a comment and tell me what you think! Thanks for reading!!


End file.
